Entitled
by sevenpercent
Summary: Five times Sherlock wasn't entitled to something, and the one time he was, but didn't appreciate it. Now Complete!
1. Chapter 1

**Entitled **

Verb

to give (a person) the right to do or have something; qualify; allow

to confer a title of rank or honour upon

* * *

**Property**

John closed his eyes, put his hand up to the bridge of his nose, and pinched it, all in the hope that the process would buy him enough time to keep his temper in check. He had a temper. He'd always had a temper. But as a child, he had learned that throwing a tantrum didn't work. Shouting didn't get him what he wanted, and throwing a punch usually resulted in him getting hurt- even if it did hurt the other person just that little bit more, which was so satisfying. So John had learned from an early age to put a lid on it, stuff a sock in it, and just hold his tongue. _Count to ten; no, this is Sherlock, it will take at least twenty before I can trust myself again._

The object of his wrath was watching him with a slightly puzzled look. "John, you seem to be upset about something. Care to enlighten me?"

_Sixteen, seventeen…._"Enlighten you? Oh yeah, I'd be delighted. This is me, Sherlock, me being angry enough to smash something. But, odds are it would be something of yours, as this flat is FILLED with things of yours. It may have escaped your notice, but I don't have many things that I call my _own._ In fact, I usually pride myself on travelling light. Unlike some other people I happen to share this flat with. To my knowledge, I pay half the rent, but I certainly don't get half the space, and it seems that you have taken a view that says all that I do have I have to share with you."

"John, are you aware that the last bit of that sentence is taken from the Church of England's wedding vows?"

"WHAT?" John's face was now almost apoplectic.

Sherlock turned back to John's laptop and typed it into Google. "Here, see for yourself. It's the fifth line of the Giving of the Rings part of the ceremony; when the bride and groom say 'All that I have I share with you.'"

John finally lost it. He walked over to the table and slammed the lid down, nearly catching Sherlock's fingers in the laptop. "I don't give a flying frig if it's a line from the Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Sherlock. I have said this before, do…not….use…my laptop. Under any circumstances. Not because it is closer to you than your own which happens to be in your bedroom, you lazy sod. Not because you want to read my private e mails, or look at whatever else I might have in my browser history, you nosey git. It's mine. Let me spell that for you, since you seem unable to grasp the concept. M.I.N.E. The property of John Hamish Watson. Not to be mistaken for anything belonging to you. It may be within the confines of the four walls of 221b, but that does not mean you are entitled to treat it as your own. Just because we share a flat it does not mean we share the contents therein. Got it?"

Sherlock looked perplexed. "No need to get your knickers in a twist, John. I'll be happy to not use your laptop, if you'll do me a favour."

"What's that?"

"Would you find my laptop and bring it to me, before you go out?"

The door slammed before Sherlock had finished the sentence.


	2. Chapter 2

**Entitled **

Verb

to give (a person) the right to do or have something; qualify; allow

to confer a title of rank or honour upon

* * *

**Respect**

Sally Donovan grimaced as she spotted a familiar tall dark figure striding up the road. The police cars at either end of Claverley Grove in north London were blocking access to all but essential personnel. In the pouring rain and the dark windy night, she was directing the scores of technicians coming in to do their work on the various parts of the crime scene- the entire back garden of Number 32 was already covered in a white tent to protect the work of the medical examiner team excavating what they believed to be a number of shallow graves. The seven rooms in the double-fronted Edwardian terraced house were already jam packed with different teams of SOCOs taking fingerprints, examining carpets for mud traces, fibres and any evidence that would help them reconstruct the last moments of the four young children before they vanished without anyone being aware of it. And that wasn't including the DI, who was interviewing the chief suspect in the dining room, and the DCs, who were conducting door-to-door enquiries with the neighbours.

"Evening, Sally; I see you've been relegated to minding the door again. Must have really annoyed Detective Lestrade last week, if he's not even letting you out of the rain. " Sherlock did nothing to conceal his sarcasm and his delight at finding her wet and uncomfortable.

That was it. She was cold and a bit miserable about being left outside. "OK Freak, let me explain something to you in words of one syllable so even you can get it. Managing who comes on and off the crime scene is not a simple job. I have to keep track of who is here, where they need to be, and what they need to be doing. There are over 25 people here working on this case, and there is only one person who knows exactly what they are doing at any one time and where they are doing it- that person is me. DI Lestrade trusts me to manage the staff and their activities, so you can shut it with the doorman routine. If, and I do mean IF, you want to join them, then you really do need to show a little bit more respect for what I am trying to do here."

Sherlock just stopped and looked at her. "I don't need a reminder in crime scene management, Sally. I'm sure they taught you all the right procedures at the Hendon Police College. Of course, ninety per cent of the people who are on the scene at the moment are superfluous and most of their procedures are a total waste of time and money once I get started, but that's not your fault. Just let me in, and tell me where Lestrade is."

She crossed her arms and said, "No."

He started to lift the yellow police tape. She reached over, pulled it out of his hand and held it down. "Cross that line, MISTER Holmes, and I will call that constable over by the car to come and handcuff you for interfering with a police investigation.

Startled, Sherlock looked at her again. "Sally, you know as well as I do that I am here because Lestrade called me. I'm not ...an uninvited interloper here. You need me."

"I don't NEED you at all, never have, never will. And what I say goes when it comes to entry to this crime scene. So show a little respect and you might get in."

"Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan, I am entitled to cross this police line and you know it." Sherlock was now getting seriously annoyed.

"Not in my book, you aren't, Freak."

"Oh, for God's sake, I'll get Lestrade on the phone and he'll tell you." He whipped out his phone and started to scroll down his contacts list.

"You won't be able to get a signal. None of our phones are. We're using the airwave radios to keep the team in touch."

He grimaced at his phone, which was indeed advising him that there was no signal available. "Then let me have your radio– or better yet, you get on it and get Lestrade on the other end."

She smirked. "No."

"This is childish."

"No, it isn't. It's about you acting as if you were entitled to entry no matter how rude and annoying you are. It's about me teaching you a lesson about manners, and respect for authority."

"I'd like to see you try." This was said through gritted teeth. He moved four paces to the left of Sally and lifted the yellow tape.

"Step under and I'll have you arrested."

"No, you won't."

She walked over to where he was starting to move under the tape. "Oh yes, I will. It's time someone told you that you aren't entitled to walk into our crime scenes as if you had a God-given right to do so. You are a civilian guest, and a little consideration from you is needed. If I don't get it, then it will be a distinct pleasure to have you arrested and carted off to the nearest station, where you will have to go through paperwork and some phone calls before they can let you out. By the time you do all of that, Anderson will have finished with his work, because he won't be interrupted by you. And that, too, will give me pleasure, enough to compensate for the DI chewing me out once you wrap him around your finger like you always do. If you won't respect me, Sherlock, I will teach you to respect the badge, and I don't care what you say, I'm not letting you in."

Sherlock was outraged, but thinking about the likelihood of her carrying out her threat and stopping him from getting to the crime scene for at least two hours, he realised that this was a stand-off. He dropped the tape and stalked off, every step of the way telegraphing his deep annoyance.

Sally smirked. This night wasn't turning out so badly after all.

oOo

Sherlock walked down the alleyway between the two lines of terraced houses. He knew that there were just three garden fences between him and the back of number 32 Claverley Grove, which ran parallel to Princes Avenue which he had just come down. Sally might want to abuse her authority, but she'd wait a long time before he ever apologised or showed her the deference she thought she was entitled to receive from him. Sherlock was damned if he was going to miss a quadruple murder just because her nose was out of joint. He hopped over the first of the three fences.


	3. Chapter 3

**Entitled **

Verb

to give (a person) the right to do or have something; qualify; allow

to confer a title of rank or honour upon

* * *

**Access **

"What do you mean, he's out of the country? Where?" Sherlock had just rung Mycroft's personal number. It was answered not by the bored "Oh Lord, what do _you_ want now?" that was Mycroft's usual reply to Sherlock's number appearing on his personal phone, but rather the dulcet tones of his PA.

"Well, Sherlock, contrary to your expectations, your brother does actually have a day job that keeps him rather busy. And no, you don't have a high enough security clearance to get a look at his diary commitments. Only he and I have that clearance. Not even the Queen can see it, so I am sorry but little brothers just don't count. It's enough of a security breach to know that he is not currently available. He did tell me that if you get into some kind of trouble while he's away, that I have authority to take whatever action I think is necessary to get you out of it."

She kept her tone light and cheerful as ever, but there was always that little hint of steel. She'd had years of experience in dealing with Sherlock. "So, what's the emergency?"

"It's not an emergency _per se_, but it is something that only he can help me with."

"Then I assume you've texted him already, given that is your usual method of communication?"

"Yes, over a dozen times in the last two days, but he hasn't bothered to reply."

"Then I will take that as a given that your ...situation... is not an emergency. And if he has re-directed his phone voice mail to my number, then you really do need to understand that no reply means just that- your request doesn't merit a reply."

"Hmmmf. I don't agree. He's the only one who can sort this out."

"Then you'll have to wait until he returns on Tuesday."

"That's too late; it needs to be sorted now."

"Well, if he has not replied to your request, he obviously doesn't agree with that timetable, so you'll just have to wait. Don't be selfish, Sherlock; he has other demands on his time and you just have to accept that you aren't always entitled to be first on his list."

That was the problem. Sherlock didn't want to wait. The reason was simple. The court case that had seen a war hero actually imprisoned for having an unregistered pistol in his possession worried John. It had worried him enough to go to the Thames the night before last and throw in his Browning L9A1, broken down into its component parts which were separately chucked over the side of four different bridges.

The trouble was John needed a weapon. He not only felt odd without it, he was decidedly more nervous when working with Sherlock, given that he no longer had the means to protect his friend's back. And, given their current situation with one James Moriarty, even Sherlock had been glad to put John's weapon to good use. So, he needed Mycroft to do whatever magic was needed to get a replacement gun licensed and legitimate. While it wasn't an emergency, Sherlock wanted to get it done in time for John's birthday next Monday. He had not wanted to explain this in text- there were limits to leaving written audit trails after all, but he felt that his brother would agree that John was entitled to carry such a weapon.

"OK, I get it that this is not YET a matter of life or death. But, it has serious potential to become one with no warning. I understand he is busy, but you can get a message to him to give me a call when he can. It involves something that should not be put into a text, so it cannot be used against him in a court of law. So, discretion ..." he heard her snort with laughter,"...and yes, I do know the meaning of the word... discretion is the better part of valour. So, I think I am entitled to that much, surely?"

"OK, Sherlock, since you put it so nicely, I'll have a word with him when he next checks in. But, just don't think you're entitled to a reply if he doesn't think it's important enough."


	4. Chapter 4

**Entitled **

Verb

to give (a person) the right to do or have something; qualify; allow

to confer a title of rank or honour upon

* * *

**Luck**

John turned away from the X-ray film mounted on one of the Emergency Department's light box.

"You're lucky, Sherlock- it may not be broken, just dislocated."

The junior doctor nodded and explained. "We will need a true lateral wrist radiograph to be sure, but I think it's what is called a lesser arc dislocation. If so, your fall will have torn the intercarpal and radiocarpal ligaments around the lunate. We need to do a reduction quickly to ease the compression on your median nerve. We can do it here- it involves anaesthesia and then traction for fifteen minutes. Then we extend the wrist and apply volar pressure on your palm to reduce the lunate and keep it in the proper position. Then we will flex your wrist gently to seat the capitate on the distal articulator surface of the lunate."

"A closed reduction then." Sherlock sounded relieved. John was a little surprised at his friend's knowledge of the medical procedure. When he raised his eyebrows in surprise, the detective explained. "I broke my other wrist when I was fifteen. That was far worse."

"You'll still be in plaster for 8 to ten weeks. That is, we are assuming that the post reduction films won't show any other issues. These are tricky injuries; instability can cause real problems, so you'll have to have it x-rayed regularly. I'll be back in a minute with the anaesthetic."

John thought of ten weeks of no violin playing. There was one advantage to the injury from his point of view. Sherlock had been recently working on a rather atonal modern composition; John had earned a rather fierce glare from his flatmate when he asked whether the title was 'Two Cats Fighting'. If he was lucky, Sherlock's compositional tastes would have moved on by the time the plaster came off.

After the more detailed radiographic film confirmed the diagnosis, Sherlock was looking rather glum. John decided he needed to be cheered up a bit. "Well, let's face it; that was a rather spectacular fall and you could have broken not just your wrist but an arm, shoulder or even a hip. It's amazing, given the risks you take when chasing suspects, that you've not broken more things before now. You were lucky, all things considered."

"Luck? There is no such thing. It should not have happened. I mean, who expects _ice_ to be an issue when it's June? I was not taking any risks."

"Well, accidents happen. Life isn't always predictable."

"John, even you have to admit that slipping on black ice in the middle of summer is just ….not fair."

"It was unlucky- if you'd gone down that alley forty minutes before, it wouldn't have been an issue. But the van delivery spilled all that fish and ice on the pavement, and you came sailing through it at just the wrong time."

"Must I remind you that I would not have been chasing that suspect if you had managed to keep your hands on him? I managed to subdue and cuff mine, after all." He looked aggrieved.

"Are you trying to make _me_ feel guilty for your being crazy enough to chase that guy for almost a mile? You are not entitled to lay that one on me, Sherlock. Your decision, your bad luck that it ended the way it did."

Sherlock sniffed. "I hate the concept of luck. It's so…random. I've always thought it to be the refuge of the feeble minded. There is no such thing as 'fate.' Deduction should be able to indicate what is possible, probable and likely- luck should play no part in it."

The junior doctor returned with the syringe, and a traction tower. "Lie down, please."

As he injected the drug, Sherlock closed his eyes. A few minutes later, the junior doctor lifted Sherlock's hand and fitted the apparatus of the traction device.

He opened his eyes and glared at the equipment now imprisoning his hand. "This thing looks like a relic of a medieval torture chamber, alongside the thumbscrew." He huffed in annoyance. "It's not fair. That's my bowing hand. It will take weeks before I can properly play again. It will be a nuisance for texting, of course, and I hate being encumbered by a cast when I'm trying to experiment." He was starting to sound rather depressed.

John tried to lift his spirits. "Most people would worry more about it being their writing hand."

"I've got you to take notes for me." That raised a little smirk on Sherlock's face.

"Oh, joy, yet another excuse for you to do even less around the flat! Just think, no dishes, no shopping, no cleaning…oh, I forgot- you don't do those things anyway."

He didn't open his eyes, but that comment made Sherlock's smirk broaden into a proper smile. "So, John, you are entitled to feel even more put upon than normal. Does it change your view about this injury; is it still fair if you are going to suffer as well as me?"

"Who ever said life is fair? Not me. When I took a bullet in the shoulder, I didn't lie there cursing or taking it personally. I was just unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Sherlock opened his eyes. "No, John- you were lucky to survive. And that's my point, exactly. The very word 'luck' is meaningless, because it is situational. It depends on one's perspective. What is true is that this wrist injury is going to be a real nuisance, and that is annoying. It doesn't matter why or how it happened. It's just…unfair."

John considered his friend's comment. "I'm not sure I agree, Sherlock. No one, not even you, is entitled to perfect health or an accident-free life. Shit happens, as the saying goes. Stuff you can't predict, can't control and there are consequences, like broken wrists, or being shot in the shoulder. Given the risks you take and the job you do, it is amazing that you haven't had far worse happen. So, I think you should count yourself lucky. Look on the bright side, you now have even more of an excuse to be looked after by me. And, everyone, even you, is entitled to have a little luck like that now and then."


	5. Chapter 5

**Entitled **

Verb

to give (a person) the right to do or have something; qualify; allow

to confer a title of rank or honour upon

* * *

**Recognition**

The suspect led them a merry chase. Up staircases, down tunnels, across underground platforms- dodging people with the practiced ease of a commuter in a rush. He looked the part, too, camouflaged in a dark business suit and proper winter coat, carrying a briefcase. He looked like any other commuter rushing for a train. So, no one stopped to look or even think that he could be a criminal on the run.

The two men chasing him, however, did warrant a second look. The taller of the two was all long legs and swirling coat, dark hair and flashing eyes. He didn't say a word, just pushed through crowds or queues, intent only on his quarry- leaving behind him a wake of annoyed and irritated passengers. Bringing up the rear was a blond man, shorter, in a green coat, whose "pardon" and "let me through" could be heard over the shouted complaints raised by the charge of the taller man.

Sherlock was about seventy five feet behind the suspect when he entered the melee that was Liverpool Street Station at the height of rush hour. The man disappeared into a crowd of almost identically dressed men, all intent on reaching the down escalator to take them to their train platforms. Sherlock decided he'd take a short cut. He leapt onto the steeply angled barrier that separated the down and the up escalator and half ran, half slid down it, by passing the lines of workers, every one of whom looked up in amazement at the apparition. It was dangerous as hell- but he pulled it off, and gained almost fifty feet on the fleeing suspect. John just tried to push his way down the escalator, shouting 'police', which did manage to clear some of the people out of the way.

Over his shoulder, he could hear the sound of the Met police car sirens approaching the station, and behind him the first signs of British Transport Police officers trying to follow him. Maybe, if they were lucky, they'd get the back-up support they needed to catch this criminal and bring him to justice.

John lost sight of Sherlock when he got to the bottom of the escalator. He scanned the crowds for his friend. Nothing, not a sign anywhere.

Then out of a passageway off to the left hand side of the station came a group of disgruntled commuters, some of whom were shouting out to the transport police who were now nearly down the escalator. "There's a nutter down there," called out one man, waving his briefcase behind him.

John set off with the two transport police not more than twenty feet behind him, dodging into the tunnel that connected Liverpool Street train station with the underground line.

It was like swimming upstream- the torrent of people coming down the corridor slowed him up, and he was only half way along it when he felt strong arms grab his shoulders. He was spun around to face an irate policeman. "What's the rush, Mister- the trains are in the other direction. Or are you running away from us for a reason?"

John just couldn't believe it. They thought HE was the criminal. He struggled to catch his breath. "Not me- your suspect is up there, ahead of us. He just stole a briefcase full of bearer bonds worth hundreds of thousands of pounds- and while we talk, he's getting away!"

The officer's eyes shifted up the tunnel and then back at John. Twice.

"Come on! He's going to get away!"

"You're coming with us, sunshine." And they pushed John between them. Their movement through the crowds was made easier, however, because the lead officer shouted "Stand clear, we need to get through". That command and their uniforms worked wonders, and the crowds parted, commuters moving out of their way.

They pushed down the corridor and slid around a sharp left hand bend. Ten feet in front of them, Sherlock was wrestling with the criminal, trying to pry his hands off the briefcase. The Transport Police threw themselves into the fray.

John watched in amazement as the first officer smashed his baton into Sherlock's ribs, as the other grabbed Sherlock by the arms and dragged him off the criminal.

"No, you idiots! Not me!" Sherlock was livid.

The criminal got to his feet shakily, brushed down his posh winter coat and reached for his briefcase, which had slid from Sherlock's grasp when he crumpled under the onslaught. He hugged the case to his chest, and said "Thank you, officers, please arrest this man. Now I have a train to catch." And with that, he strode towards the down escalator that would take him to the tube platform.

John went ballistic. "Officers- that's the criminal who's getting away. You've just cuffed the wrong man!"

It was John's flying tackle that took down the criminal. And he collected the briefcase and brought it back to the police. By then the Met team had caught up with them, and they arrested the criminal. Unfortunately, the officer who had cuffed Sherlock admitted that the key was back at the station room- up two flights and it would take about ten minutes to get it brought to them. he was already on the phone.

In the meantime, John had to deal with an irate consulting detective. The Met team thought it was hysterical and one had taken his phone out to take a photo, before John could intervene.

If looks could kill, that Transport Police Officer had been hung, drawn and quartered by the tall brunet, who was so angry he could hardly speak. "How DARE he do that to me?!"

John tried to be a peacemaker. "Come on, Sherlock, you're the one who says you don't like publicity. If they don't recognise you, then how can you blame them for mistaking your identity? Try to see it from their perspective. That guy looked the part of a City banker, and you looked like a madman when you charged down that escalator. You aren't entitled to being treated like everyone knows who you are."

Sherlock just glared at him.

John smirked. "Maybe you should have been wearing that deerstalker hat; then they might have recognised you."

"No one, not even you, John, is entitled to make fun of me, which is why you won't ever find me wearing that blasted hat again."


	6. Plus One

**Entitled **

Verb

to give (a person) the right to do or have something; qualify; allow

to confer a title of rank or honour upon

* * *

**A title**

John picked up the post from the little hall table, where Mrs Hudson always put it. Sherlock never bothered to collect the mail. "The three Bs, John- bills, bumf and boring" was his reaction. "Nothing interesting ever comes by snail mail," he would sniff and walk right by the ever growing pile of envelopes.

Well, someone had to go through it and throw out the flyers for discount pizza delivery (_An American perversion of bad Italian food, John; really, Angelo's is just SO much better_). John threw out the junk mail, and shuffled through the remaining envelopes. A few final demands for utility bills. He wondered how Sherlock seemed to never worry about these. (_Debit cards serve a purpose; the hard copies are just for our records)_ John sometimes wondered how Sherlock managed his finances. He had never seen his flatmate check a bank statement, or use a cash machine to check his balance before withdrawing some money. Given the expensive clothes he wore, Sherlock obviously had resources. It did make John wonder at times why he had needed a flatmate to share the rent. And he did seem remarkably unbothered about charging his clients for cases. Mind you, it only took a few like Sebastian Wilkes' bank to pay the £20,000 that he'd given them for Sherlock not to have to worry much.

However diffident Sherlock might be about money, his brother's three piece suits and Eton education screamed old money, so John had learned to relax about the bills.

He kept thumbing through the pile. A post card from Harry, a photo of some tropical desert island in a turquoise sea. "Dear Johnny- wish you were here? Well, so do I, but I'm stuck in a boring job in a country with a miserable winter climate!" He smirked. She was saving for a trip next summer to the Greek islands, so he decided to buy her a guide book for Christmas to give her imagination some time to get even more excited.

Then he found a stiff envelope. One that didn't have the ubiquitous plastic see-through window that heralded yet another bill. He put the other pieces of mail down on the table again, and looked at the envelope carefully. The first thing he noticed was the quality of the stationery- very expensive, at least 200 g/m² and in a linen finish. John knew this after surviving an extensive lecture from Sherlock, who had deduced the origins of the envelope holding the pink phone that started off Moriarty's five pips bombing campaign.

On the back of the envelope was a small embossed coat of arms, with a coronet. John didn't recognise it, but it looked suitably impressive, yet tasteful. Maybe a wedding invitation mis-delivered? Mrs Turner's tenants next door were something important in media, perhaps it had gone in the wrong letter box by mistake. He turned over the envelope to see to whom it should have gone.

The address was hand written, in beautiful calligraphy, to "The Honourable Sherlock Vernet Holmes"

_The Honourable? _ John went upstairs, calling for Sherlock, but there was no reply. His coat and scarf were missing, so John assumed his flatmate was out. He fired up his laptop and googled. And then clicked on "Courtesy titles in the United Kingdom". He scanned down the page, and his eyebrows went up even higher. "The younger sons of earls, and the sons and daughters of Viscounts and Barons are granted the courtesy title of The Honourable before their names."

Just at that moment, he heard the tell-tale thump of Sherlock charging up the stairs to the flat. His friend burst through the door, threw his coat and scarf onto the peg and slipped straight into the kitchen.

"I've got Indian take-away; we need to eat quickly though because I've just heard that Molly's got a special cadaver in- a body that's been in the Thames down by the Tilbury Docks. She wants a second opinion about how long- thinks it might be three weeks. It's a great opportunity to test out the new cellular decay protocol I've been working on." He said all this while reaching frantically for plates, cutlery and serving utensils.

For a moment, John's train of thought was distracted by the image of a smelly bloated decomposing cadaver and wondering how Sherlock could possibly be hungry when facing such a prospect.

"Sherlock, what's this?"

His flatmate turned around and cast a swift glance at the envelope in John's hand. He snatched it away, took one look at the address and tossed it unopened into the bin in the kitchen. "Nothing, just junk mail."

"Sherlock, that was not junk mail. It was in an embossed envelope, with a posh hand-written address to you- and just when were you going to tell me that you're an "honourable"? Not to mention what the hell kind of a middle name is "Vernet"?

"Still junk mail."

John huffed. "Nope, I'm not letting you out of the door unless you confess. No nice horrible cadaver unless you tell me the truth. That title means you're some kind of aristocrat."

"What difference does it make, John?" He said this with his mouth full of pilau rice and chicken jalfrezi, which he had just shovelled in at speed.

The blonde doctor giggled. "Well, maybe I was wrong. If you were from one of England's finest families, I would have thought that your mother might have taught you better table manners."

Sherlock swallowed, then sniffed. "It's definitely junk mail, because it's from Mycroft. He does this every year, just to irritate me. It's an invitation to a posh dinner dance that he puts on, for mummy's favourite charity. She used to do it, but after she died, he became patron."

"If Honourable is the title for the younger son, what does that make Mycroft?"

"A prat."

"Sherlock….come on. If I am going to tease someone with a title about his weight the next time Mycroft kidnaps me, I'd better know if I could end up in the Tower of London."

"His full title, which he inherited from Mummy by the way, nothing to do with the Holmes side of the family, is Lord Mycroft, The Viscount Sherringford. She was the Viscountess, and it is a hereditary title.

"Bloody hell," muttered John. "Now I _am_ going to be dragged off to the dungeons next time I insult him."

"Don't be absurd, John. He doesn't use the title professionally; he finds that politicians are a bit wary of aristocrats these days, especially if they are European, where most of their nobility ended up in front of a guillotine or a firing squad. And anyway, the House of Lords was reformed in the UK so that very few British heredity peers are involved in politics. It's meaningless."

"So, what's your middle name mean?"

"That's my mother's, too. Her mother, Sophia Vernet, was French, and her family was rather artistic. A great grand uncle was Emile Jean Horace Vernet, a prolific and highly successful painter of the mid nineteenth century. That means more to me than some silly title."

"Sherlock, it isn't silly; it's your family!"

He made a face. "It's all pointless, John. I'm not 'honourable' because of anything I did; it's just an accident of birth. Your titles, 'doctor' and 'captain' are more meaningful because you actually earned them. You're entitled to be proud of them, for good reason. Now are you coming to join me? I could use a doctor's professional opinion about that drowned body." He handed John a plate of curry and rice, with a fork. As an afterthought, he added a napkin. John's comment about his table manners had stung a bit.


End file.
